In Transit
by DormantAllure
Summary: John and Sherlock are flying together for the first time. It's not pleasant.


In Transit

The airport security check queue was long. And not moving. Despite this stagnant situation John Watson had its hands full with luggage and a fidgeting Sherlock Holmes.

"No international conventions, no rock concerts, no other events of note. Amount of traffic not out of the ordinary. Probably understaffed because of cutbacks. Or short-staffed. Influenza season. Wednesday – who flies on a Wednesday?-" "Apparently, we do," John sighed. "We could have checked in online, you know, less of a hassle."

Sherlock threw his hands up in disgust. "Yes but can't do your security check online, can you?! Bloody useless, all it would require for someone to sneak in is a bit of social engineering." John shot him a warning glance. "Please don't start plotting hypothetically out loud. Someone'll hear you. Did you remember to put your toothpaste in the plastic bag?" Sherlock lifted the bag in question up in the air for John to inspect. "Oh the sheer stupidity of this all. It's all for the imbecile commonfolk, fooling them into thinking this had anything to do with hindering terrorism." He sounded exasperated and a little louder than John would have liked. "If I wanted to blow up a plane I certainly wouldn't use toothpaste. And if I wanted to import the electronics somewhere, I wouldn't put them in by shoes which they'se so intent on scanning. They'd be in my-" John glanced around, noticing two armed officers approaching. "What did I just tell you?" He realized Sherlock wasn't listening. Instead he was focused on ziplocking his plastic bag, lost in thought. "And do you listen? No, because us mere mortals are nothing but static." Sherlock's musings were interrupted by said officers grabbing him by his arms. "Sir, if you'll please come with us."

They avoided a cavity search and the no-fly list only because Mycroft called somebody.

"Tell me again, Sherlock, why we're sitting in coach despite the fact that we've been hired by an international banking firm with funds probably equal to Scrooge McDuck." "Who?" "Nevermind." "I was hired. Not we." John leaned back in his seat and it made a squeaky noise. Around them, people were taking their seats and stowing luggage into overhead compartments. "Please elaborate. Otherwise I might be wondering what the hell I'm doing here." "I was approached by the British CEO of a Hongkong banking conglomerate. One of their analysts went missing in Beijing. Now he's returned, only his brother is certain that it's some kind of a doppelganger. This I have to see." "Surely a firm that size hiring a private investigator-" "Consulting detective," Sherlock insisted, carefully folding his coat and passing it to John who had the aisle seat. "Hiring a consulting detective could have afforded business class." "Yes, but I deduced you would not have been happy sitting here alone." John looked at Sherlock with mock confusion. "Surely a firm that size could have afforded TWO business class tickets. It's a fifteen-hour flight. And you have long legs." Sherlock was obviously working hard at folding his aforementioned limbs into a comfortable position in the small footspace of economy class. It didn't help that he sizable passenger in the seat in front of him had immediately folded his seat down to its lowest setting. "That is true, unless I forgot to mention you." "You forgot to mention me." John's statement was directed to the universe, not Sherlock. "Of course you would forget to mention me, and still drag me along." "Of lighten up, John. Business class is so dull, the most you can usually get out of business travellers are their marital affairs. They are such carbon prints of one another. High-brow university backgrounds, inferiority complexes, foot fetishes and overachieving personalities. Coach is much more varied, a lot more fascinating in a sociological sense. And before you suggest that I could have rectified this mistake by purchasing said tickets myself and billing the firm afterwards, I must admit having forgotten to cash several checks lately as well." "And what, pray tell, were you doing while forgetting to cash your checks?" John's patience was wearing thin. Flying was fine, he did not fear it or consider it much of a nuisance but he had a strong feeling flying with a bored Sherlock would be much less pleasant than flying with a crying infant. Or a baby dragon. "Busy, John." Sherlock's gaze roamed around the section. "No stewardesses in vicinity. They should have started preparations if we were to leave on time. It takes an average of 17 minutes to secure everything for a plane this size, assuming there are no more than one or two stewards in training present." John swithced off his phone. "You should switch yours off as well." "Just did. Although statistically, there are no reported incidents in aviation history where the passenger use of electronics has cause a malfunction in navigational systems." "Well, wouldn't want this to be the first one, then would we?" a smiling stewardess was leaning onto John's seat while gesturing the passenger sitting in front of Sherlock to lift up the back of his seat. John smiled pleasantly. Sherlock did not reply, sintead began rapping his fingers on his knee. "You're not nervous about flying, are you?" John inquired. Sherlock looked at him. "No, not in any sense. Quite a seasoned air traveler. Planes are safer than say, car travel, being a pedestrian or cycling. Although if an accident does occur, the nonsense theatrics they always show you won't help. Likely you would freeze to the point of unconsiousness and then the impact would-" John glanced around. Young mother sitting behind them was listening and looked quite pale. "Thank you Sherlock, for that insight. Now, please shut up about death, injuries, statistics and everything else pertaining to air travel." "And what is there to talk about, then?" "I'm positive you'll figure something out."

After Sherlock had watched all the ancient episodes of "Yes, minister" that John could find on the entertainment console, built a contraption out of his food tray parts to break the seat reclining mechanism of the passenger seat in front of him, read the three books he had brought along (and the one John had with him) the inevitable happened and the fidgeting began. John gave Sherlock an extra nicotine patch and tried to focus on his movie. "John?" "Mmm-hmm?" "What do you think has happened to the woman on row 45?" "I'm not playing this game. We're ten kilometres above Northern India. If the other passengers gang up and throw you out of the place I'm sure you can deduce the outcome." Sherlock did not reply. John managed to enjoy his movie for a few minutes more. "John?" "I need the loo." "You just went. If you bladder's defective then maybe we should just swap seats." "I just want to stretch my legs." "Easier to do that in business class," John reminded him. This was going to be a long flight. A few lovely minutes of silence. "John?" "What?" Sherlock leaned closer and nodded towards a nearby steward. "They're at it again," he stated, in his usual cryptic manner. John cursed himself for indulging. "Who?" "Him and the blonde stewardess from Glasgow." John did not even want to ask about how he knew about Glasgow. "I figured he was gay. Look at his nails, the makeup and the shoes. I think it's rather obvious." Sherlock frowned. "Too obvious. It's what he would want everyone to believe. She's married to some other staff member, one of the pilots perhaps. They have to keep this ruse up so noone would suspect anything." "Quite a ruse, then. Not a lot of blokes would be game for that." "People often assume we are an item. And some part of you considers this a compliment and therefore your protests sometimes lack conviction." John stared at him. "Not going there, Sherlock." "Very well." Sherlock leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes.

Hours later, John had received his meager airline meal and a cup of tea and was starting to feel a bit mor relaxed. Sherlock had been leafing through what little case materials he had received from the CEO. This had kept him busy and quiet for an hour. John even managed to doze off for a moment. "John!" He woke up when an elbow met with his ribs. "Jeez, Sherlock, what-" Sherlock was looking at him seriously. "The fork, John." "I already ate." "No, it's the fork, John!" Sherlock sounded exasperated. "Care to explain?" He yawned. Just as he had managed to get some sleep. "What about the cutlery then?" "In the Skype call recorded by the CEO he's eating a salad. When he places it on the table he first puts the fork on the right side. Then he moves it to the left. Which means he's right-handed, unlike his twin brother. Probably adopted at birth, unaware of one another's existence. Oh John, this smells like Moriarty. All we need to find out is whether this chap was getting into trouble, embezzling or anything similar that would explain why he'd consult someone about disappearing. It's brilliant John, the trouble they'd have to go to – they would need to train the brother, really train him – which would require the original brother to participate in order for the coup to be believable, all the details, john, the details! These little things, like his tie taste. Proves he had to be in on it." John considered this for a moment. "You probably solved it, then?" John sort of hoped he had the power to turn back to plane.

Hours later, Sherlock was entertaining him with his latest findings on the different qualities of Thames riverside reeds, their symbiotic relationships with certain cadaver-munching insects and their possible uses discerning whether abody had been moved from an original location. The young mother sitting behind them was a bit pale again. It probably didn't help that at one point John had turned in his seat and told her "Don't worry, he's like this all the time" before realizing what it sounded like. Not very reassuring.

They had now been up in the air for ten hours. After the somewhat unpleasant episode at the airport John was not in his most favourable mood towards his flatmate. And his recurring attempts at shutting him up only seemed to result in the ever-insomniac Sherlock turning his attention to other passengers. Which was always a bit not good. So he agreed to let Sherlock try to beat the records on all of his iPhone games.

If this didn't manage to keep him quiet for long enough, John had still one ace up his sleeve. Even though it probably was a severe breach of medical ethics, he was preparing to use the tranquilizer he had stashed in his overnight bag. Slip it in Sherlock's tea, probably, while he was stretching his legs. Sherlock would forgive him. It was tit for tat, really. And rather preferable to a completely worn-out John murdering him in a plane above the Himalayas.

- The End -


End file.
